


Chronology: A Series of Firsts in the Life of Sherlock Holmes

by Vaeyana



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:21:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vaeyana/pseuds/Vaeyana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of first times that Sherlock deleted as unimportant or too painful. (But that doesn’t matter, because it’s the second first times that really count).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One: The First Kiss

When Catherine, the housekeeper’s six-year old daughter, kisses Sherlock, he’s seven and shocked and horrified beyond belief. The kiss is nothing more than a innocent peck, of course, something that Catherine (call me, Cathy, Catherine’s my _grandmother_ ) saw two people on television do once, and her mother and father often, and she wanted to see what all the fuss was about. But since Sherlock’s the only boy close to her age in the area, she decided she had to satisfy her curiosity with him. Cathy’s only response is a confused look, followed by a “huh, is that it?” from pursed lips, before she’s stepping back and away.

Sherlock’s initial shock is replaced by a vague sense of indignation. He didn’t care for it at all either, but he knows that he should probably be offended by her mutually unimpressed reaction. For a terrifying instant, watching her walk away, he worries that she’ll never talk to him again—and such is his frantic fear of this occurring, that he hurriedly deletes the memory (a trick he learnt from Mycroft) from his mind. Hopefully, if he manages to forget his moment of embarrassment and apparently less than stellar performance, then somehow, maybe, she won’t bring it up either. So when she turns around seconds later, asking if he’s going to play with her or what, he doesn’t quite know where the sudden rush of relief comes from, but he pushes it aside and jogs after her, a small smile tilting his lips.

At university, he shares what he thinks is his first kiss with Sebastian Wilkes, but after the debacle that turns out to be, it too is relegated to his internal trashcan. 

***

 _The first time Sherlock kisses someone, he’s exhausted, only barely managing to stagger across to a reasonably clear patch of ground in the midst of the broken, hazy warzone that was the pool, before collapsing on his feet. Seconds after, John follows. They sit for a moment, hearts racing thudthudthud , breath leaving in great, shuddering gasps. They’re both covered in dust, mixing with pool water in great, muddy streaks on their clothes, which are ripped and torn beyond repair, and a myriad of bloody scrapes and scratches shows beneath and is that soot, in John’s hair?_

 _Vacantly, a hand comes up to inspect it (dark, slightly oily residue, from the bomb, then?)—before it halts, fingers stopping against John’s cheek. There’s a bruise forming a dark ring around one of John’s darkening eyes and as he strokes a single finger across it, the events of the night come flooding back, a wave of terror threatening to crash over and engulf him like a rushing tidal wave of pain, grief and menacing red dots, greedily consuming all in its path. Oh god John_ _almost_ — _and when he leans forward, barely aware of doing so, suddenly, desperately, he only half-registers that John’s leaning forward to meet him in the middle before he’s there, and—_.

 _Their lips press together once, twice, as fingers curl in hair and tug on tattered coat collars in a white-knuckled grip. A bruised, swollen mouth presses hard against a split, lower lip, but the pain is barely noticed, in fact it welcomed, alongside the shared, life-affirming breaths of dust-choked air. And there’s dirt and blood and salt water alongside their tongues, and he is vaguely aware that this probably isn’t supposed to be what a first kiss is like, but then his lip is caught gently between John’s teeth, followed by a softly stroking tongue and as a whimper leaves his throat, he stops thinking so much. Because it’s John—_ Johngodfinally _—and that’s all that matters._


	2. Chapter Two: I Sleep Alone

The first time he sleeps alongside someone else, he’s five years old. Mycroft’s twelve, and he claims that Sherlock’s tossing and turning is loud enough to wake the dead and can be heard even over the storm that’s raging outside. “I can’t even concentrate on the [Korean Armistice Agreement](http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Korean_Armistice_Agreement) for heaven’s sake, so budge over.”Sherlock’s reddened eyes dart from Mycroft to the branches of the old oak tree scraping like long-nailed fingers across his window, before quickly looking away. With a shrug, and a scowl, he moves to one side ( _please_ ), begrudgingly handing Mycroft a spare pillow, before turning over on one side, and surreptitiously wiping his eyes with a corner of his pillowcase. With his other hand, he pulls the bedcover tight around his chin, huddling into its warmth, while trying to make it look like he’s doing anything but.

“Just don’t hog all the covers,” he mutters.

He can almost _feel_ Mycroft’s smirk. Fatty.

But slowly, even though the storm still rails and screams a war cry against the earth, Sherlock’s shoulders relax and his chin slips onto his chest. When the tree outside creaks and groans like a wheezing, crotchety old man, he tenses slightly, before inching closer to his sleeping brother, breath slowing to match the deep exhalations (and occasional snore, if truth be told—and Mycroft _will_ be told, no doubt about it) reverberating from the warmth beside him. He closes his eyes, until his own breaths even out in sync, and he finally slips into sleep.

In the morning, when Mummy opens the door to wake him for breakfast, she smiles at the sight of her youngest son cuddled up against the back of his older brother. When Sherlock wakes at her soft “Oh!” and discovers his position, he scrambles back and almost falls off the bed. Mycroft, stirring at the movement, rolls over and manages a smirk even though he’s only barely awake. Sherlock’s so appalled (he’s not a _baby,_ honestly) that the moment is deleted the instant Mummy has moved downstairs with a final, fond smile, and Mycroft follows her down to breakfast, with a final, vaguely pointed “Look’s like clear skies this morning, probably tonight, too—I might be able to finish that reading outside, for a change” thrown over his shoulder.  Though, as Sherlock flops back onto his rumpled sheets, staring at the faint water mark on the ceiling (is that a bumblebee?), he does wonder why the bed is so much warmer than usual.

 

In later years, even at uni, he refuses to share a bed. The feeling of being alongside another warm body brings to the surface all the desires for companionship, warmth and the assurance that he’s not completely alone—desires that he harbours deep within him, pressed down and out of mind, set with a cast-iron lid and 12-combination lock for good measure. Whenever Seb presses to stay over—“Come _on_ , Sherlock, it’s pissing down out there! And where am I supposed to get a cab, at this time of night?”—Sherlock flatly refuses.

“Not my concern, Sebastian. Though you can sleep on the couch, if you must. I just don’t share my bed. No exceptions, I just never have. Not once.”

 

***

 _The first time he shares a bed, he’s thirty-two years old, and an ill-fated experiment involving the strength of various cans of food under varying heats has just exploded all over John’s bed. John, fuming, pushes his way past Sherlock and into his room. He flatly refuses to listen to Sherlock’s protests. “I don’t share a bed, I never—”_

 _“Well, that’s too damn bad. Maybe you should have thought about that before you decide to turn my bedroom into a bloody chemistry lab! Wasn’t the kitchen enough? And you just had to experiment with our damn sofa! Do you have any idea how long plaster of paris takes to dry? And I don’t even want to think about how we’re going to get that out of the fabric!” He is an odd figure of authority in mismatched pajamas, kneeling on the edge of Sherlock’s bed, with hands firmly on his hips, but Sherlock finds himself unable to say anything in response. Instead he looks away, fiddling with a loose silk thread on the sleeve of his own pajamas (perfectly matched, thankyouverymuch). With a satisfied huff, John clambers the rest of the way into bed, punching the pillow into submission, before settling down beneath the covers._

 _Under normal circumstances, Sherlock is unlikely to even need sleep, and would simply head off to the kitchen to continue an experiment or three (probably see what fibres have caught in that plaster of paris...actually, maybe I could—) but they’ve both just come off a case-induced four-day high and he is, frankly, exhausted. So, after a long moment, eyes fixed on the stiff line of John’s back, Sherlock too climbs warily into bed._

 _For a long while he just lies there, stiff as one of the corpses in Bart’s morgue, covers pulled tight to his chin. A few hours pass, listening to the deepening, even breaths and feeling the warmth emanating (so close) beside him. He turns his head to one side, watching John as he sleeps. His hair, grown long since his time in the military, flops over his forehead, and flutters in and out with every breath._

 _Sherlock’s own breath falters for a moment, as John lets out the slightest, snuffly sigh, before flinging an arm out and over Sherlock’s waist, pulling himself tight along the suddenly rigid line of Sherlock’s body. He lies there, too shocked (scared because he might wake up and move away and ohgodno) to move, before finally settling down, with John simply adjusting himself to lie half across his chest, tremulously closing his eyes, and drifting off to sleep._

 _In the morning, when John and Sherlock wake to find themselves practically tangled together, Sherlock will experience a similar moment of panic and humiliating weakness that he had almost thirty years before (though he won’t remember this previous occasion, of course)._

 _But John will simply smile and chuckle softly, with a sleep-raspy “morning”, before untangling his limbs from Sherlock’s and stumbling for the kitchen. “Tea?” he throws over his shoulder. With that, any lingering awkwardness is gone. Did it ever exist? Sherlock’s mouth opens, but snaps closed soon after. He lies back, and stares up at the ceiling._


	3. Chapter Three: Of Clothes and Cousins

The first time someone helps Sherlock dress (besides when he’s really little, of course) he’s six years old, and his mother is laying out clothes for his birthday party.

“I thought the blue shirt, with the new trousers your grandmother bought you for your birthday? It’ll look very smart!”

Sherlock groans, and slumps down on his bed, only to jerk up as, without warning, she reaches for the shirt and pulls it over Sherlock’s head.

He is not amused.

“Mummy,” Sherlock whines, face pulled away from the tugging on his stiff collar. “I can get it—”

“I know, sweetie. But just let me this once, alright? You’re growing up so fast, it won’t be long before you’re too old for me to do all this.”

He struggles, privately thinking he’s too old for it _now,_ let alone in any given future, but relents. Though he draws a line at a tie. As her hand threatens to reach for the single tie (forced on Sherlock a few months earlier at the funeral of a great-uncle he’d never even met) lying crumpled and forgotten (or pointedly ignored) on the bottom of his wardrobe, Sherlock has to speak up.

“Mummy, I seriously doubt anyone else my age is going to be wearing a _tie_ to this party. I doubt even any of the adults will be! It’s not that formal, is it?”

She sighs, shaking her head, but settles for stroking his unruly hair smooth, instead. Eventually, she’s forced to give up, and is buttoning his shirt cuffs, Sherlock seated and fidgeting on the end of his bed, when Sherlock’s seven year old cousin, come up from London for the occasion, passes by the door. Peering in, he lets out an incredulous snort.

The minute Mummy’s out of the door, in a cloud of Chanel No. 5 and the cool click of pearls, he ducks inside and leans against the doorframe. “Mummy still dresses you, then Shirley?”

“Shut up, Edward” Sherlock snaps, cheeks reddening. Hands clenched at his sides, he adds “and don’t call me that!”

“What, Shirley? Why not? My _mother_ stopped dressing me years ago!”

Sherlock can feel his face burning with humiliation, but he continues. “She doesn’t dress me, not all the time. And your mother never dresses you because she stopped having any interest in you the moment you were born, and she had nannies to look after you instead!”

Edward flushed. “Well—at least none of _them_ had to dress me, _Shirley!”_ He whirls around, and stomps down the hall.

Sherlock listens to his retreating footsteps, before sitting down heavily on his bed. It’s not that he _wanted_ Mummy to dress him, but she just—. And for Edward to _see!_

A small, frustrated growl escapes him and, cheeks burning anew, the image of Edward’s mocking smile disappears along with any memory of the last ten minutes.

 

***

 

 _The first time someone helps Sherlock to dress, he’s thirty-one years old and a building has collapsed on him._

 _Well, only an outhouse, technically, but the fact remained that the suspect John and Sherlock had been chasing ran into the outhouse, which proved to truly be as rickety and worm-eaten as it appeared, and promptly collapsed the minute someone (Sherlock) knocked too hard against a supporting beam. The suspect had managed to run straight through. John had barely made it to the door when the building trembled like the ground beneath had suddenly turned to jelly, causing him to step back outside._

 _Sherlock had not been so lucky._

 _When John had managed to scramble through the rubble (thankfully little more than a few rotten beams and some equally rotted cheap ply, but still enough to do a fair bit of damage to anyone trapped beneath it) and uncover Sherlock, he found the detective, with a great, bloody gash on his temple, knocked unconscious. Though given the way his leg was twisted awkwardly to one side, perhaps that was for the best._

 _John swore softly under his breath, removing the rest of the rubble as best he could, as he called for an ambulance._

 _Once in the hospital, Sherlock amused himself as best he could—spending his time berating in equal parts the doctors and nurses unfortunate enough to be assigned his case (You failed your certification twice, your hand’s still affected by anxiety-induced tremors, not to mention you’re completely compromising your professional authority by sleeping with the Head of Staff—don’t think you’re coming anywhere near me with that needle!) and whinging to John (This is a complete waste of my time. I’ll just go home! You’re a doctor, for god’s sake. John, tell them you’re a doctor!). In the end, after a private consultation with John and Mycroft, who had shown up to smirk at his brother’s infirmary (and out of concern, John thought. Hopefully.), the staff settled for upping Sherlock’s pain meds. Not enough to be damaging (or illegal), just enough to keep him in a relatively permanent (and manageable) state of blissful calm and disorientation. It was really much better on his nerves._

 _And everyone else’s._

 _However, by the time it came to leave the hospital (about bloody time!) Sherlock, with a broken leg, multiple lacerations and bruised ribs, not mention feeling the lingering effects of the meds, could barely stand unassisted, let alone get dressed._

 _So, as John moved towards him, shirt and coat in hand, he swallowed his (quite considerable) pride and held out his arms._

 _“Just as well no-one’s here to see this,” John says, grinning as he manages to get Sherlock’s arms into the sleeves. Sherlock, still disorientated and stumbling from the (completely unnecessary, you idiots! What do you think youuree, oohh!) veritable cocktail of painkillers that had been forced through his system, frowns._

 _“What?”_

 _John brushes Sherlock’s fingers, slurring over the intricacies of his shirt buttons, away. “Let me do that”. His fingers deftly pop each button into place. Straightening Sherlock’s shirt, he looks up and continues. “Me, busy putting your clothes back on, rather than you tearing mine off—or my coat, at least. I’d say they’re confused enough about us as it is.” Sherlock chuckles, as John moves across to pick up Sherlock’s own coat, helping him into it._

 _A tremor runs through his leg, threatening to buckle beneath him. A hand shoots out to grip his arm, while the other falls to his lower back. “You alright?” John asks, as he helps Sherlock to steady himself. Sherlock presses his lips together, and nods._

 _A flicker of movement beyond the hospital doorway catches his eye, and he looks up to see a passing nurse smiling fondly through the doorway at what she assumes is a man helping his brother/friend/lover—still weak and helpless from injury._

 _Once, that kind of witnessed proof of his own weakness would have killed him._

 _Once._

 _Before John._

 _John doesn’t notice. Releasing Sherlock, he steps back. “Right, you’re all set! Ready to head home?”_

 _Sherlock looks back at him. John’s eyes crinkle at the corners, eager to get Sherlock home and out of the cold, white confines of the hospital._

 _He smiles._


End file.
